Star City, USA
by Kenya Starflight
Summary: A collection of oneshots set in the Eye of the Storm universe. Next Chapter: There Was Another. It's 1977, and a mysterious visitor arrives in Star City just as the film that started it all opens.
1. Guest of Honor

**Star City, USA **

**Kenya Starflight**

_Rated PG for mild violence and language_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Having written four stories set in the "Eye of the Storm" universe, I have suddenly found myself inundated with plot bunnies for further adventures in that realm. Rather than giving each bunny a multi-chapter story, I have decided to compile this collection._

"_Star City, USA" will be a compilation of vignettes, one-shots, missing scenes from the longer stories, and short character studies set in the "Eye" universe. Some will take place before the events of "Eye," some will take place after "Armor of Vader," some will be set between or during the stories, etc. Each short will be prefaced by a short explanation as to the time frame, so as not to confuse the reader._

_If anyone has ideas for a new chapter, e-mail me. I can't promise I'll use it, but I'll give it due thought and give you credit if I end up using it._

**Guest of Honor**

_NOTE: Set after "Eye of the Storm," approximately one month before the events of "Armor of Vader." Yes, Anakin is still in the armor. Thanks to Kellen and Jedipati for the idea._

It was a relatively peaceful town nestled in the Rocky Mountains, bordered on one side by a thickly forested national park and sporting gorgeous scenery, a pristine lake, plentiful wildlife, and a small-town feel to the atmosphere. Just an hour and a half drive from Denver, Star City bore the dubious and debatable title of "Star Wars Capitol of the World" thanks to the double conventions it hosted in the summer, but for nine months of the year the town was otherwise ignored, which was how the locals preferred it.

Especially one local in particular, who at the moment wanted nothing to do with celebrity of any kind, especially now.

"What are the three branches of the government?" Zack barked. "Quick, no time to think!"

"Legislative, executive, judicial," Anakin fired back. "Honestly, Zack, I can do this without your help."

"C'mon, this makes studying fun!" the scrawny, greasy-haired, scraggly-bearded geek replied with a wide grin, pausing a moment to stuff some popcorn into his mouth. Zachary Brown was one of the self-proclaimed "Star Wars" fanatics who had accepted Anakin, Fett, and Luke and helped them adjust to Earth life almost a year ago. Twenty-eight years old and still living with his mother, he was under the strange notion that the geek lifestyle was the only way to live, as if he could achieve some kind of sci-fi Zen through hoarding action figures and memorizing obscure trivia.

"Pledge of Allegiance!"

Anakin smiled tolerantly and recited the pledge. He didn't have to bother with all this, really. The President had offered him political asylum in the country until his Jedi-ordered five-year exile was through. But Anakin insisted on earning American citizenship status. If nothing else, it would ensure he had someplace to call home if he could go nowhere else.

And it let him take his mind off of all the annoying phone calls he'd been receiving lately. If those people didn't stop trying to contact him, he would have to resort to aggressive negotiations soon.

"…and justice for all," he finished. "Are you through yet?"

"Nope," Zack grinned. "If the President dies or is suddenly unable to hold office, who takes his place?"

"The Vice President."

"And if they're both incapacitated?"

Before Anakin could answer, the phone rang. Zack put down the book and leaned over to check the caller ID.

"Who's calling you from California?" he asked. "I thought your number was unlisted."

"Don't answer," Anakin replied. "Let it hit the machine."

Wooden thudding filled the apartment as someone pounded on the door.

"Can I get that?" asked Zack.

"Go ahead. It is most likely my ghostwriter."

Zack stood, wiped his hands on his "Han Shot First" T-shirt, and went to the door. He opened it a crack and peeked out.

"Um… didn't know your ghostwriter took to dressing like you."

"Mr. Skywalker!" whoever was on the other side of the door shouted. "Can I get your autograph?"

"Tell him to come back another time," Anakin ordered.

"He says get lost," Zack relayed.

Anakin winced. "Tact" was a word whose meaning was generally lost on Zack.

"Tell him I think he's the bomb!" the eager fan gushed.

Zack shut the door. "There, got rid of him for you."

"Next time, I will answer the door," Anakin replied.

At that moment, the answering machine picked up the phone call. "You have reached the message unit of Anakin Skywalker. You know what to do after the tone."

"Hi, Mr. Skywalker, this is Angie from Twentieth Century Fox, calling on behalf of Lucasfilm."

Zack gave Anakin a wide-eyed look. "They're calling YOU?"

Anakin rolled his eyes. The creators of the "Star Wars" movies had suddenly decided that they had to consult him on every detail of the last movie, from sets to scripts to costumes. He didn't see what the problem was. George Lucas had certainly done well enough the last five times without his help. If he needed ideas or wanted to verify the facts, he could easily consult a copy of the Galactic Encyclopedia or just rely on his own vibrant imagination.

Besides, didn't Lucas know just how painful this whole issue was with him? The members of Vader's Elite, the fan club Anakin and his friends and family had befriended here on Earth, had told him often enough that Episode III would chronicle his fall to the dark side. That was something he did not want to talk about with anyone except his children and, to a limited extent, the ghostwriter of his memoir. And he certainly didn't want to think about it more than he had to.

"We would like to cordially invite you to the premiere of Episode III this next week," Angie's voice went on. "We're offering you free tickets for yourself and as many guests as you'd like, and are willing to pay for any and all travel expenses, including airfare and hotel reservations. Please give me a call back and let me know how many will be coming. Thank you and have a good day."

Zack's eyes were practically bulging out of his head by the time Angie had finished. "FREE tickets to see the premiere! Dude, can I go?"

Anakin shook his head. "I am not going."

"Aw, why not? It'll be a blast!"

Anakin just gazed at Zack, letting his silence communicate what he thought of attending the premiere.

"Oh," Zack said at length. "Sorry. Yeah, might not be the best thing for you."

The door pounded again. Zack moved to stand up, but a heavy black-gloved hand on his shoulder held him in place. Anakin was the one to answer the door, only to be blinded by a flash of light straight in his face.

"Mr. Skywalker, tell us what you think of Episode III's release this next week!"

The hallway outside his apartment was clogged with reporters and cameramen, all talking at once. Mrs. Hendrix, his feisty landlady, was at the rear of the pack looking fit to kill, and a few of the other tenants were gaping from their doors. Anakin wondered if using the Force to throttle a few of the paparazzi could be justified in this case.

"Mr. Skywalker, this newest 'Star Wars' film is probably the most controversial release of 2005 and has already been banned on a few planets. What are your opinions?"

"Do you plan to see the movie, Mr. Skywalker?"

"Do you plan on filing suit against Lucasfilm?"

"I have no comments regarding 'Revenge of the Sith' at this time," Anakin replied shortly, and was about to shut the door.

"Ow! Hey! Please let me through!"

He froze. He knew that voice, and it was no reporter. It took a minute of searching, but he soon spotted the source – a small, pale, mousy young woman carrying a laptop computer under one arm and struggling to fight her way through the crowd, looking more and more terrified by the second. She hated crowds and looked about to break down any second.

"Move aside!" Anakin shouted, reaching into the crowd and grasping her hand. Swiftly he pulled her into the sanctuary of his apartment and slammed the door in the faces of the deserving reporters.

"Thanks," she sighed, much relieved.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. Opal Patten was the cousin of Brigham Pratt, another original member of the Elite, and she had just joined the fan club this last Christmas. Painfully shy and quiet, she was nonetheless a brilliant writer. She hadn't been able to gather the courage to submit her work for publication, so Anakin had hired her to ghostwrite his memoir. The book would not have her name on it in the end, but seeing her words in print might give her the boost she needed to submit something else.

"Hey, I know you!" Zack gushed. "You're Brig's cousin… um… Crystal? No, Pearl…"

"Opal," she replied, ducking her head and blushing.

"That's right, Opal. Knew it was a gemstone."

She sat down at the table and opened her laptop. "So what did the publisher say, Mr. Skywalker?"

"They are willing to take the manuscript," Anakin replied. "But they have given a two-year deadline."

"Then let's get cracking," she replied, her fingers curled over the keyboard.

"Wait a minute, Ruby, you're not gonna believe this," Zack cut in.

"Opal," she corrected.

"Sorry. But he's been offered free tickets to see the premiere of Episode III, and he's gonna turn them down!"

Opal shrugged. "Do you blame him?"

"Well, no. But still…"

"Zack, I will make this perfectly clear," Anakin said sternly. "I have no desire to relive that portion of my past. I have no desire to watch myself fall to the dark side again, even if in the back of my mind I know it is all computer graphics and bad acting. I will NOT be watching Episode III. End of discussion. You can go now."

"Fine, I'll go," Zack muttered. "I can tell when I'm not wanted." He picked up his books and strode out. "See ya round, Topaz."

"Opal."

"Oops, Opal."

A rare smile blossomed on Opal's lips after Zack had gone. "He's kind of cute."

"And annoying as hell," Anakin replied, going to sit in his chair. "Where did we leave off?"

Opal tapped a finger lightly against the keyboard, thoughtful. "You know," she said at length, "it would be fun to go to the premiere. I know you don't want to sit through that… but the rest of us, who've never lived through 'Star Wars' until very recently… we'd have a blast."

He had to concede that point. Even after living on Earth for a year, he still occasionally forgot that, to these people, the galaxy beyond theirs was still very much a novelty. And just because they now knew that the beloved heroes and villains of "Star Wars" really existed didn't mean their interest in the films had dimmed. If anything, that knowledge had only whetted their appetites for the final installment of the series.

But just because these people were obsessed with the films to the point of impersonating the characters, camping in front of theaters, writing lengthy fanfic, and counting down the seconds to May 19th didn't mean he had to get a piece of the action…

Then inspiration struck.

Opal had spent a lot of time around Anakin and had learned his body language well, so she picked up on what was going on immediately. "I've seen that look before. What's on your mind?"

"Hold the writing," he told her. He picked up the phone and dialed.

"This is Angie."

"Angie, this is Mr. Skywalker."

"Oh hi! So you got my message…"

"Yes, and you said I could have as many tickets as I wanted."

"Uh-huh?"

He made eye contact with Opal and nodded. "What if I needed an entire theater?"

Opal smiled again.

_Break…_

The theater was jammed with so many Stargeeks that some took to sitting on the floor in front of the screen or in the aisles. Fake lightsabers waved in the semidarkness, conversation bubbled and buzzed all around, buckets of popcorn were passed around. The atmosphere fairly vibrated with excitement as those gathered awaited the highly anticipated "Revenge of the Sith," due to start in ten minutes.

"This is so cool!" gushed Trapper, planting himself right in front of the big screen and craning his neck.

"Not so close, you'll hurt your eyes!" Austin ordered.

"Honestly, how can you see that close to the screen?" wondered Liz.

Anakin just smiled as he turned to shake the hand of Nick Staples, a deaf fan who had befriended his son last summer. This entire theater had been reserved for any of the citizens of Star City who wished to view the premiere – the entire Vader's Elite, other local fan clubs, casual fans, even a few people who had previously declared themselves against anything "Star Wars." In return for booking the entire theater, Anakin would remain outside for the duration of the film, answering questions and signing autographs. He thought it a fair exchange.

"Father?"

He turned to see Luke, Leia, and Han entering the theater. Chewie was close behind, a bucket of popcorn in each arm and his mouth full of the buttery kernels. Luke stepped aside to let the others find seats.

"Luke?" He wasn't expecting to see his son here.

Luke grinned. "Had to catch the action."

"I thought I told you all of this…"

"I know." He smiled. "But I would like to see for myself, if only to understand a little better."

Anakin wasn't sure about this. "Luke, it's extremely disturbing. Please understand that. If you watch this film… you'll probably hate me."

Luke placed a hand on his father's arm. "Father, this is my choice. I'm an adult, I can decide for myself. And no, I won't hate you. I may not like what you did, but I can't hate you."

He reached out and embraced his son. "I love you, Luke. I've said this many times, but you have your mother's heart."

Luke nodded. He knew how hard this was for Anakin. He knew about the slaughter of the Jedi, the fateful duel on Mustafar, even Padme's death as a result of his actions as Vader. And yet despite all that, he still loved him, still believed there was good in him.

His compassion would serve the Jedi well.

The Twentieth Century Fox fanfare began playing. The theater erupted into applause.

"I must go," Anakin told his son. "Take care."

"I will," Luke told him as he left the theater.

_Break…_

Anakin came home from the premiere to find a fresh bag of mail on his doorstep – letters from fans, some shocked, some angry, others sympathetic. The next few days brought floods more as the world let him know exactly what they thought of him in the wake of "Revenge of the Sith." He was surprised to find the notes of sympathy greatly outnumbered the flames.

"_I detest your actions in Episode III, but I understand that you were manipulated into those actions. No, that doesn't make what you did right, but it's clear to me, at least, that you are not entirely at fault in what happened. The Emperor and the Jedi should share the blame. Gregory Palmer, Enterprise, FL."_

"_The Emperor was a cruel bastard and can rot in the underworld for all I care. You didn't deserve what he did to you. Kristen McFarland, Montreal, Canada."_

"_Question: If Obi-wan Kenobi was such a great friend to you, why didn't he try to save you after you fell in the pit, or at least grant you the mercy of a quick death? As a retired firefighter who's seen men killed in action, I know that burning is the most painful way to die. I think that Obi-wan should have acted with a little more compassion and not just jetted with your lightsaber, wife, and kids. Roger Shepherd, Memphis, TN."_

"_If marriage, love, and family weren't banned in the first place, would all this have happened? Tyler Denaski, Gresham, OR."_

The phone rang in the midst of sorting, and he paused to answer.

"Father, it's me."

"Luke, what is it?" There was something about his son's voice.

Silence. Then, "I forgive you. For everything."

The latest letter blurred as tears filled Anakin's eyes. "My son… I wanted what was best for my family. I went about it the wrong way… but understand that I had no intention of becoming… that."

"I know, Father. I know. But I think things have turned out okay."

There was a long pause that spoke volumes. Then they exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

Anakin balled up the letter in his hands – an angry tirade calling for his immediate lynching – and lobbed it into the trash. Let the world think what they would. All that mattered was that he had not lost his son to the horrors of his past.


	2. We All Pay A Price

**We All Pay a Price: Austin's Story**

_NOTE: Set just before the events of "Eye of the Storm."_

_SETUP: The day Austin's ex-wife dropped off Trapper, Austin was preparing another "Life As a Geek" column for the "Star City Herald." During the events following Trapper's arrival, the column was eventually forgotten, and remains languishing on Austin's hard drive. Here is the column in its unedited entirety._

As Star City prepares itself for another summer of "Star Wars," as geeks of every walk of life converge on our town like some demented Rebel army, as storeowners jack prices through the roof and homeowners lock their doors and hide their children and pets for their own safety, I would like to bring up an interesting question that will probably never cross the minds of any attendees of Stellar-Con or Nova-Con:

What price do we pay for the privilege of being known as Star Wars fans?

Sure, there's the social sacrifice – obsession with science fiction has always hovered on the fringes of social acceptability. Sure, there's the stereotype of us being "geeks," pasty-skinned creatures with thick glasses, wardrobes straight from the 80s, and permanent homes in our mother's basements where we eschew sex and contact with society and spend all day on e-Bay buying obscure action figures for outrageous prices. Sure, there's the financial burden – nothing sucker-punches your checkbook quite like a life-sized solid-bronze statue of Yoda does (no, I do not know this from personal experience).

But do we forego other pleasures to pursue our beloved films?

I suppose some of us will never know, of course. Who knows, for example, if those who create fan fiction, fan art, and fan films will ever become best-selling authors or acclaimed artists or Oscar-winning directors if they abandoned their Star-Wars-oriented projects, or at least put them on the back burner? Who knows if a young man will become a beloved father and husband if he stops obsessing over Natalie Portman and realizes there are women out there who just might be attracted to him?

I'm not saying that fandom is a bad thing. Not at all. What I'm saying is that there is a price to pay for every interest, every obsession, every dedication.

And sadly, I know exactly what price I paid.

Her name was Melissa Greenwood. She sat squarely in front of me in my English 125 class my freshman year of college at Colorado State. Looking at our high school lives, we were obviously complete opposites – her the cheerleader, the honor student, the student body president, the valedictorian, and me the slacker, the weirdo, the after-school D&D master, the kid who got kicked off the broom hockey team for refusing to take off the stormtrooper mask at our first game. So it was only natural that we saw each other as quirky and fun, thinking our idiosyncrasies were cute, keeping in contact after I dropped out to pursue a writing career… and after she received her Bachelor's Degree, we married.

We were young and in love, and in that state of mind you quite willingly make concessions. She agreed to move from her big-city life in Chicago to Star City, where I worked for the Herald. And I agreed to move into a nice house her parents purchased for us rather than the dumpy apartment I called home. We were happy for a few years.

I don't think I fell out of love with her. I just think I grew complacent. I thought our love was a constant, that nothing could shake or alter it. I thought she would understand that there were other things that were a part of my life just as much as she was.

She didn't understand. She never would. And I guess it's something anyone outside fandom will never totally comprehend.

And I admit that I could have done better. I could have made an effort to put aside my obsession to be a husband, a father. But instead I slipped away at every opportunity, starting my own fan club, making new friends at the conventions that she felt she couldn't relate to, cutting her out of my life. It grew to the point that she laid down an ultimatum – Star Wars or the marriage. The movies, the collection, everything got put into storage, and we went through a round of counseling, and for a while, it helped.

But not for long.

Some guys cheat on their wives, some drink on the sly, and some have other, darker secret indulgences. I lied about writer's conferences and late meetings to watch "Return of the Jedi" and play video games with the fan club, who still met in secret. It seems silly admitting it, but it's the truth. I was having an affair with Star Wars.

I mentioned I had a son, didn't I? Beautiful baby, gray eyes like his mom, black hair like his dad. It's sad, isn't it, that I don't know what his first spoken word was? Melissa says he uttered it while I was at one of my "meetings," and she still won't tell me what it is. That hurts.

She would accuse me years later of not even knowing I had a son. Not true. I just thought time with my son could wait. Like the old song goes, "When you comin' home, Dad/ Don't know when/ but we'll get together then/ we're gonna have a good time then…"

DragonCon was the last straw. I wanted to go. She said no way. It was our anniversary, for crying out loud, and we would be spending it far, far away from Atlanta. The fight was long and ugly, ending explosively when she threw a bronze paperweight at me. Charges were never filed, but I still have screws in my jaw. After the operation, I went to live at my friend Sparky's for a while, hoping things would cool down.

No such luck.

I wonder if she knew the guy was a Sons of the Sith member. It would have been her vindictive nature to put them up to it. I thought I would wet myself when I opened the door to see the self-styled Darth Quinzain staring me down, smiling smugly and handing me the envelope.

You've Been Served. Three words I never wanted to hear. My marriage was over.

My attorney says I got off lucky. Melissa was a CEO by this time, making almost quadruple my pay, making the matter of child support moot. And I got the house as well. In his opinion, I had no business contesting the divorce.

But I fought it all the way to the end. I even got down on my knees and begged. I'm sorry, Melissa. I was a jerk, I was a bastard, I was unfeeling and selfish. Please give me another chance. No, don't take my son. Don't take him away from me. Summer vacation and holidays? That's crumbs to a starving man! Dear Father in Heaven, give me another chance! I'll burn my collection, I'll never watch another Star Wars film again, just don't take my boy away!

Damn, I'm emotionally drained just typing this. I've worked myself into a frenzy and I know there's no way in hell I can submit this to my editor now. Maybe I'll save it as a journal entry, or maybe I'll just trash it. Doesn't matter. I can't go back and change the past. What's done is done. As ROTJ says, "It is too late for me."

There's the sound of a car driving up. Trapper's here for the summer. I have a few minutes – Melissa's probably going to give the you-can-always-call-me-if-you-want-to-come-home speech again, something that drives the boy nuts.

Ironic, don't you think, that my son loves Star Wars? Melissa makes him keep his collection at my place, of course. But he's as obsessed as I once was, and it's a little painful sometimes. But it's a link between us, no matter how unusual it seems.

Star Wars ruined my marriage. But perhaps it can help me salvage my relationship with my son.

Just glanced out the window. Strange. Something seemed to be drifting into the forest… aircraft, but the strangest aircraft I've ever seen… it's gone. Maybe a trick of the light.

Knock on the door. Trapper's here.

Why do I get the feeling that this summer is going to be far from ordinary?


	3. The Elders

**The Elders**

_NOTE: Set the day after the events of "A Midsummer Night's Chaos."_

A silver Mitsubishi Eclipse ground to a halt in the gravel driveway of the Powers' house, and two clean-cut young men in dark suits exited the vehicle, stopping to collect their briefcases from the back seat before heading for the front door. Mormon missionaries were not a common sight in this neighborhood, but all the same the neighbors had the decency not to stare or make comments. Then again, they had seen stranger people knock on Austin's door, so it could very well have been simple, jaded disinterest that kept them from heckling the young men.

"Okay, Elder, first appointment of the day," the one whose nametag read Elder Hansen said, taking a peek in his day planner to ensure they were at the right house. "And it's your turn to give the discussion, so are you ready?"

"Isn't this the guy who turns on his sprinklers when we go to the door?" asked the other elder nervously, fidgeting with his own nametag, which read Elder Murphy.

"Oh, don't worry, he's promised that we'll leave the house dry," Hansen assured him. Elder Hansen was a tall, confident (some would say arrogant) man, tanned from years in the California sun back home, with a thatch of golden brown hair that all the combing and gel in the world couldn't seem to get under control. The most experienced of the two missionaries, he took charge of the situation, leading the way up the gravel path and to the door, knocking briskly.

Elder Murphy checked his watch and bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. Short, solid, and with a babyish face that fooled people into believing he was younger than he actually was, the Maine native was constantly running his fingers through his almost cherry-red hair, making it stand on end and giving him a comically frazzled look. He had only been in Colorado for a little over a month and was still trying to learn the ropes of this area.

A young boy in a black leather costume opened the door. The missionaries didn't so much as blink at the sight. If one served their mission in the Star City area, they had to get used to the eccentricities of the town. An elder who freaked out every time a Darth Maul impersonator or a woman in Slave Leia gear opened the door was generally an elder who would be transferred to a different area within the week.

"Hello, we're representatives from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints," Elder Hansen greeted. "Is your father home?"

"Just a minute," the miniature Vader replied. He turned and bellowed into the house "DAD! It's the Jehovah's Witnesses again!"

"Trapper, have some manners!" came the retort. "Don't shout across the house…" The door opened wider, and a tall man in a grease-stained Weird Al concert T-shirt and ragged jeans stood just behind the boy. "Oh, hello Elders. Come in. We're waiting for you."

Hansen gave Murphy a "see-what'd-I-tell-you?" look as they entered the house. The place was loaded with Star Wars collectibles, and almost immediately upon entering Murphy tripped over a Lego Stardestroyer that someone had left in the middle of the hall. Trapper hurriedly scooped it up and took off with it.

"Sorry about that, he's a little messy," Austin apologized.

"Not a problem," Hansen replied, brushing Murphy off. "We're just glad that we could have the opportunity to share our message with you and your boy…"

"Oh no, you're not teaching me," Austin corrected. "A friend of mine wants to meet with you. He's agreed to meet you guys here, since his roommates don't want the missionaries at their place."

"Oh," replied Hansen, his train of thought derailed only for a second. "Well, can we meet him?"

"Sure, he's in the living room. Follow me."

Murphy tugged on Hansen's sleeve. "I thought we'd be…"

"Brigham only said we'd be meeting the investigator here," Hansen reminded him. "He didn't say it would be the Powers. Don't worry, the guy's probably very eager to hear from us."

Austin led them to the living room and gestured for them to have a seat on the couch. "Trapper and I'll be outside if you need us," he told the Elders. "Looks like he's running a bit late, but he'll be here soon." The man smiled wryly, as if he knew something the missionaries didn't, and he herded his son out the back door.

They waited quietly, Hansen cracking his knuckles absently and admiring the vintage movie posters on the walls, Murphy fidgeting with his pen and nervously whistling a hymn. A minute passed, then two, then five…

The front door slammed.

"Finally," muttered Hansen.

"Sorry I'm late!" A young man skidded into the living room, still dressed in his stormtrooper duds. "The Cosplay Tournament at the park lasted longer than I thought it would…"

"Hi, Brother Pratt," Murphy greeted, grinning widely. The elders knew Brigham fairly well from the local congregation, and he had helped set them up with a few appointments the past few weeks. "Whatcha doing here?"

"Oh good, I beat him here," Brigham sighed, much relieved, and he flopped in the computer chair and turned to face the elders. "I'd hoped to have a few minutes to explain what's going on."

"Yeah, you said we'd be teaching an investigator here," Hansen said. "I don't see him…"

"He's staying with friends of ours across town, so it'll be a minute before he gets here." Brigham pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat off his face. "But I have to tell you something – this isn't an ordinary investigator."

"In this town, we haven't had anything close to an ordinary investigator," Hansen shot back.

"No, really, this guy is out of this world. _Literally _out of this world."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hansen asked.

Murphy caught on. "We're teaching an alien?"

"Yes," Brigham replied, nodding vigorously. "Specifically an alien named Boba Fett."

"Boba Fett?" exclaimed Murphy.

Hansen frowned. "Who's Boba Fett?"

"You don't know Boba Fett?" said Murphy, surprised.

"I'm not a big sci-fi fan like you, Elder…"

"He's off the Star Wars movies," Murphy explained excitedly. "He's a bounty hunter and a clone of a former Mandalorian warrior named Jango Fett, who raised him as a son until a Jedi killed him. Boba Fett's also Vader's right hand man, in a sense…"

Hansen cut him off. "This isn't funny, Brigham. Who's this guy really? Or is this a big gag?"

"It's really Boba Fett," Brigham insisted. "I wasn't going to tell you, but then I thought, that since Fett knows next to nothing about our world, let alone our church, I might want to let you guys know so you don't automatically assume he knows about Christ and God and the devil…"

"C'mon, Brigham, don't pull our legs…" began Hansen.

The door slammed, and two figures entered the living room – a man around Brigham's age in rumpled khakis and a T-shirt that proclaimed "When I Snap You'll Be The First To Go," and a man in the distinctive armor of Boba Fett.

"I'm just saying to be careful, Fettster," the first man was informing Fett. "Don't let Brig or anyone else pressure you into a commitment. Make sure you know what you're doing before you say yes to anything…"

"I can take care of myself, Cody," Fett snarled.

Murphy gawked. Hansen rolled his eyes.

"What are you doing here, Cody?" demanded Brigham.

"Just wanted to catch the action," he replied, sitting on the floor between the couch and the computer chair. "Not every day you get to watch a debate between two missionaries and the galaxy's best."

Murphy stood and offered his hand. "Hello, sir, I'm Elder Murphy," he said with a smile. "And this is my companion Elder Hansen. We're representatives of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter…"

"I know," Fett interrupted brusquely, having a seat on the coffee table. He pulled a cloth from his belt pouch and began wiping down the barrel of his blaster. "I made a deal with Brigham. In exchange for his information, I agreed to listen to what you had to say."

"I see," Hansen replied, still looking skeptical. "Brigham tells me he gave you a Book of Mormon. Have you started reading it yet?"

"Skimmed it," Fett replied. "He's also given me a brief overview of the history of the book, for what it was worth. A strange tale." He snorted.

"So tell me, Brother Fett… can we call you that?"

He nodded.

"Do you have any questions before we begin, Brother Fett?"

A thoughtful pause. "Yes," he said finally. "Why do the two of you have the same bizarre first name?"

Brigham held his head in his hands while Cody doubled over with hysterical laughter.

"Actually, sir, the word 'Elder' is simply a title in our church," Hansen replied without missing a beat. "All male missionaries use the title 'Elder…'"

"You can't be older than Cody," Fett retorted. "Why use the term 'Elder?'"

"Age has nothing to do with being an Elder," Hansen replied. "Yes, 'elder' can be used to describe an older or more experienced individual, but it's also an office of the priesthood…"

"Then why not call yourself a priest? It would make more sense than 'Elder.'"

Hansen frowned, not used to being argued with. "No matter what titles we go by, Brother Fett, we're missionaries of our church, and we're here to share a message with you." He nudged Murphy. "My companion here will share it with you."

Fett turned his attention to Murphy, though he continued to clean his blaster as he listened.

"The story begins almost two hundred years ago, in a town known as Palmyra, New York," Murphy began. "There was a great revival going on in this town, and the people were becoming extremely preoccupied with religious matters. Among these interested parties was a young farm boy named Joseph Smith. He wondered which of these faiths could be correct, for there were so many diverse doctrines that they couldn't all be right.

"As he was thinking over the matter one night, he decided to turn to the Bible for answers, and while reading the Book of James…"

"What the hell is the Bible?" interrupted Fett.

"Um, Fett, you probably shouldn't swear around the Elders…" Brigham informed him.

Hansen shook his head. His expression clearly said, "Who in their right minds doesn't know about the Bible?"

"There are two main books of scripture in the church," Murphy replied, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out two blue-covered books with titles printed in gold. "The Holy Bible, which gives the history and scripture of God's people in the Old World, and the Book of Mormon, which is an account of God's people in the New World." He hesitated, then explained further. "Here on our planet, the eastern hemisphere is considered the Old World, as civilization there is older, and the western hemisphere is called the New World…"

"He knows all that already," hissed Hansen.

"No he doesn't," Murphy countered.

"You really don't believe he's from another planet, do you?"

"If you expect me to believe an uneducated farm boy dug up an ancient book made of gold on a hillside," Fett retorted, "then I expect you to believe that I'm not native to your planet and need more of an explanation."

Cody whooped and punched the air with a fist. "Go, Fett!"

"Cody, quiet," Brigham told him. To Elder Hansen, he said, "Look, I know it's hard to swallow, but trust me, he's Boba Fett. He's been keeping a low profile the past few weeks, that's all."

Hansen gave him a skeptical look. "I don't appreciate being made the butt of a joke, Brother Pratt."

"And I don't appreciate being called a liar, Elder Hansen," Brigham retorted. "I like you, Hansen, but sometimes I think you're a little arrogant to be a good missionary."

"A LITTLE?" muttered Fett. "If his head swelled anymore, he'd look like Ki-Adi-Mundi."

Cody fell on his side, clutching his ribs as he howled with laughter, and despite himself Brigham began chuckling too.

"Kowdi-WHO?" demanded Hansen.

Murphy joined in the laughter, though not quite as raucously as Cody. "This is the best appointment we've had all week, Elder."

"Man, if I knew it was going to turn out this good, I would've invited the rest of the fan club!" gasped Cody, wiping tears from his eyes. "Almost as good as 'Hardware Wars…'"

Fett glared at Cody, then turned back to Murphy. "Keep talking."

"Anyhow, a particular scripture jumped out at him – Book of James, Chapter One, Verse Five. It read 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him.' Never had a scripture impacted a man more profoundly than this verse affected Joseph at this moment. He determined that he would indeed ask of God…"

"What's this god's name?" asked Fett.

Murphy froze, caught off guard. "Uh… we normally just call him God, or Eternal Father, or Heavenly Father…"

"Or Jehovah," added Cody. "Or Emmanuel, Rock of Ages, the Way and the Truth and the Light, the Lamb, Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace, Alpha and Omega, the Messiah, the Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel, King of the Jews, the Good Shepherd…"

"Sounds as if your god has an identity crisis," Fett noted.

Cody was unable to continue listing off names, as he was laughing too hard.

Fett holstered his blaster, then pulled out a vibroblade and absently ran his fingers along the edges. The elders began to wonder if he was purposely trying to rattle them.

"Actually, it's a common misconception that God and Jehovah, or Jesus Christ, are one and the same," Hansen told Fett. "They are actually two separate beings, one being the Father, the other being the Only Begotten Son of the Father."

"I'd beg to differ," Cody shot back, "except that the Mormons in this room outnumber me three to one right now."

"Smart choice, Cody," Brigham told him.

Fett sheathed the blade. "I've heard enough," he said. "I have no further interest in this religion. You can have your book back, Brigham."

"Are you sure?" asked Murphy.

"I am sure."

"Well, if you ever change your mind, you can call this number." He handed Fett a card. "You can receive a free video and information about our church…"

The door slammed.

"Who's there?" wondered Brigham.

"Oh, that'll be the others," Cody replied casually. "They were gonna pick Fett up and go blow off some steam at the shooting range."

"What others?" asked Murphy.

"Let me guess," Hansen said in a condescending tone. "Fett brought friends here… say, Captain Spock or Ford Prefect?"

Cody shook his head. "I really don't like this guy."

"Sorry, Brigham, but whatever you're trying to pull, it's not going to work. I'm not going to believe that some guy from another planet is sitting in front of me…"

"Um, Elder, behind you…" said Brigham, pointing.

"Why, what's behind me? Chewbacca?" He turned to look.

Two men were standing behind the couch, eyeing him curiously – a young man in casual clothes with tousled blond hair and piercing blue eyes… and a foreboding figure in gleaming black whose every breath hissed balefully, a figure whom even those ignorant of science fiction could recognize and instantly fear…

Hansen opened his mouth to say something, but it never came out. Instead, he slid off the couch and onto the floor.

"Um, Elder Hansen?" Murphy said anxiously.

"What's his problem?" asked Luke.

"Got me," Cody replied with a shrug. "Probably had his britches on too tight, that's all."

A throaty rumble issued from Vader's mask, and Murphy shrunk back a little before realizing it was an amused chuckle.

Hansen waited in the car for the next hour while Murphy talked excitedly with Luke, Vader, and Fett, grinning excitedly the entire time. When he finally got in the car and waved goodbye, Hansen gunned the engine and sought to put as much distance between themselves and the Powers' house as possible in as little time as possible.

"Nice guys," Murphy said excitedly. "I almost got them to commit to going to church this Sunday, but the mask issue was a problem…"

"Okay Elder, we'll go over this one more time," Hansen said shortly. "Who do we tell about this?"

"The mission president?"

"No, who?"

"The bishop?"

"No, guess again."

"Church headquarters?" He grinned as Hansen tensed to snap at him. "I'm just kidding. We're not telling anybody."

"Right. And what happened today at the Powers house?"

"You passed out and had to have Darth Vader dump a glass of ice water in your face?"

"No!"

"Nothing happened."

"Right. And are we going back to their house?"

When Murphy didn't answer, Hansen answered for him. "No, we're not going back. End of discussion. Do you understand?"

Murphy wasn't paying attention anymore. "The three of them autographed my tie."

"Ugh," Hansen groaned, leaning over the steering wheel. "You're so impossible."

"I think you need to relax a little, Elder," Murphy retorted. "It could've been worse. It could've been the 'Lord of the Rings' crew."

Hansen shuddered. "The Star Wars crew was bad enough. Let's just hope they leave the planet quietly so we don't have to deal with them anymore."


	4. There Was Another

**There Was Another**

_NOTE: Set some 27 years before "Eye of the Storm."_

_"You three weren't the first, you know… there were others." – Darth Quinzain in "A Midsummer Night's Chaos"_

Location – Star City, Colorado. Date – June 4th, 1977. Population – roughly 900 and dropping daily. A dying small town whose economy hinged on the meager income White Deer National Park and a few downtown historical buildings provided. Remote, secluded, and mostly ignored by the rest of the state, it had been hard-hit by the economic downturn of the decade and was already starting to decay.

The newcomer knew none of this… but it would have made little difference to him anyhow. Such details were most likely inconsequential to his mission.

Pulling his hood further over his horn-crowned scalp, he slipped from the trees as silently as a wraith, gliding from shadow to shadow in the rapidly dimming dusklight. His yellow eyes roved over the aging paint of the houses, the vacant windows of the businesses, absorbing any details that might aid him here. The few people who walked the streets at this hour offered the black-robed being curious glances, but a few not-so-subtle nudges of the dark side turned their attentions firmly away. He could not attract more attention than necessary – a considerable challenge, considering he was most likely the only Zabrak on an exclusively human-populated world, but then, he enjoyed a challenge.

Darth Maul slipped quietly into an alley behind a seedy diner named the Leapfrog, pulled his sleeve back, and quietly flipped on the wrist holo.

A ghostly, handspan-tall image of his master flickered to life. "What is it?"

"I have arrived in Area 51, my Master," Maul murmured. "My presence is undiscovered. I am ready to receive further instructions."

"Excellent," Sidious purred, a slight smirk on his face. "There is a great disturbance in the Force on this planet. You will investigate it at the source and inform me of your findings. We must know whether we can use this to our advantage, or whether it will be an obstacle in our plans."

"I will not fail you, my Master."

"Failure?" Sidious laughed wickedly. "There is no such word as failure, my apprentice. Remember that."

Maul nodded once in reply as the holo faded.

"Hey mister, who you talkin' to?"

Maul revolved slowly in place to face two young boys. Both were scrawny excuses even for such young pups, and both wore ragged worn jeans and Rocky T-shirts. One had black hair and striking blue eyes and looked to be no older than four or five; the other had brown coloration in both areas and seemed around twelve. And both gaped in horror as they caught a glimpse of the Sith's tattooed face and fearsome glare.

Maul smiled. He enjoyed striking fear into the hearts of any he encountered, even if they were only stupid children.

He curled his lip in a snarl, just for added effect. It worked beautifully – both boys fled, shrieking, into the dimming evening.

_Excellent._

He emerged from the alley and walked on. This sector of space was alleged to be the most dangerous in the galaxy – ships were rumored to enter and never return, or were later found abandoned or their occupants driven mad. Few enough braved this place, and fewer still lived to tell about it. And for the most part no organization, not even the Jedi or the Sith, had attempted to solve its mysteries.

But when Darth Sidious, the current Sith Master, had sensed a divergence in the Force centered on this planet, he had judged it too important to ignore. And so he had sent his apprentice.

The streets were quiet, perfect for Maul's needs. He would be relatively undisturbed on his mission. Was all the planet this tranquil, or had the dark side simply guided him to a peaceful area of the planet…

When he turned the corner, however, he found anything but quiet.

A queue line of several dozen, perhaps a hundred, people poured down the street, a living river that coursed toward a single building – a small theater from the look of it. Excited chatter, disdainful mutters, shrieks of delight from the children, laughter, curses… it rang in his ears and grated upon his nerves. How was one supposed to think with all this blasted noise?

The two boys he'd terrified earlier stood at the end of the line, and upon seeing him the younger burst into tears while the older pointed and begged for his mom to have a look.

"Mom, Mom, it's the Satan guy again! Look at his eyes…"

"Ryan O'Brian, you know better than that!" his mother snapped. "It's just plain rude…"

"But Mo-om!"

"Are you sure it's a good idea for the boys to see this, Janet?" the mother of the other boy asked worriedly, lifting her son and patting his back. "I know my Austin's a sensitive boy…"

"What with the state of the world today, Maureen, it's mild compared to what they see on the news," Janet retorted, snagging Ryan's shirt collar to prevent him from escaping her sight.

"All I can say is this 'Star Wars' bull-honkie'd better blow over quick," complained an older man ahead of the two women, who was obviously there only to chaperone his own sons. "Bunch of nonsense if you ask me…"

_What are they talking about?_ Maul wondered.

"Finally, line's moving!" muttered a teenager whose hair looked as if he'd stuck his tongue in a power coupling. "I hear Hank in Denver, he stood in line for seven hours to see this movie…"

Intrigued by now, Maul cut discreetly in line about halfway up, silencing the irate complaint of the person behind him with a jab of the dark side. What exactly was this phenomenon that had people willing to wait hours to witness it? And did it have anything to do with his mission?

At the head of the line, something else piqued his curiosity – a flat image of some kind upon the wall. In the foreground was shown a young man and woman, the former holding a blazing lightsaber to the sky like a torch, the latter clad in a white dress, posing in a seductive manner, and firing a blaster at the ground for some unevident reason. Slightly behind them in the right-hand corner, a gold protocol droid and some kind of astromech unit were visible. To the left, starships of a type he was unfamiliar with streaked skyward. In the background loomed a foreboding black visage… some kind of alien skull? A wickedly designed droid? A mask, perhaps? And emblazoned at the bottom of the image in Old Basic script were two words in a queer block print – STAR WARS.

_A holovid or some equivalent_, he reasoned. _With elements of our own world incorporated into it_. Odd. He had always been under the impression that no contact had been made with this world yet. Which meant one of two things – someone had risked a landing on this planet and was trying to educate these backward people…

…or this was the source of the divergence in the Force.

He bypassed the ticket seller, clouding his mind and the minds of the next few in line to cover up the fact that he hadn't paid admission, and found a seat in the back of the theater, between a snoozing old man and a teenage couple who seemed more interested in some preliminary mating ritual than in the screen. Whatever this Star Wars was, it bore closer scrutiny. If nothing else, it would tell him just how much these people knew of the goings-on beyond their pathetic backwater.

What he learned… was interesting.

The sound in this theater was horrible, completely out of sync with the character's lips, and his ability to listen was made all the worse by the snoring, cooing, and kissing of those on either side of him. But he heard – and saw – enough to tell him that this was the source of the divergence. For the galaxy it depicted was not the galaxy he was familiar with.

If anything… it seemed to speak of the future. For it told of a time with no Jedi Knights, save one. It bespoke the era of the Sith's rule, even though the Order was never mentioned by name. And it portrayed a Sith whom Maul had never heard of or read of in the Archives – one Darth Vader.

Quite frankly, this Vader impressed Maul. He was ruthless, cunning, and efficient, a wicked warrior and a strong leader. He wasted no pity on the weak, no mercy on the incompetent. His fearsome and commanding presence, made all the more terrifying by the fact that he seemed to be partially machine, was not lost on even this Force-blind audience – they gasped and sighed in awe at his very appearance, and some even cheered when he telekinetically throttled an arrogant officer who had the nerve to insult him.

And the Death Star… his Master had, of course, ordered the Geonosians to begin researching an ultimate weapon. Perhaps this was the fruits of their research? It was an impressive piece of work; too bad it was so easily destroyed…

Vader… there was something about this Vader. There had never been a Darth Vader in the history of the Sith. And Maul was positive it could not be himself in the armor.

That led to one conclusion – this was Maul's apprentice.

He felt a dark smile cross his lips. So this WAS the future, then. This was a time when he would take on the mantle of Master – and eventually Emperor – from Sidious. This was a time when HE would rule the galaxy, when HE would govern the Sith Order… and with it, the galaxy. And it would be HIS apprentice that struck down the Jedi Order once and for all… and at Maul's command.

The very thought of it filled him with a savage joy.

People were filing out of the theater now, and he slipped, mostly unnoticed, into the throng. The other moviegoers were too excited by what they had viewed to pay attention to even his strange appearance. So much the better.

Maul strode swiftly down the streets of Star City and to the forest where his ship waited, at the same time reviewing the path that had been laid before him. He would have to report to Sidious, of course… but it would be a carefully presented report indeed. After all, he hadn't found the creator of this Star Wars, so thus, he hadn't discovered the source of the divergence, had he?

_The Apprentice overthrows the Master in the end_. That had always been the way of the Sith. Sidious had murdered his own master in his sleep. Sidious' master had, in turn, defeated his own master in a treacherous duel, and she, in turn, had trapped her master in a collapsing tunnel to ensure her own ascension. Sooner or later, Maul would kill Sidious, and he would have his rightful title of Master.

_And then I will find this Vader… and I will see to that thermal exhaust port and that slippery Kenobi…_

_Break..._

A year later, of course, Maul would be very surprised to find his grandiose plans cut short by the saber of the "slippery Kenobi."

Three years after that, a few creative souls would put their heads together to create the ultimate Star Wars party… and consequently save Star City's economy.

And twenty years after THAT, as the Vader's Elite fan club viewed a midnight showing of "Episode I," Austin Owen Powers and Ryan "Sparky" O'Brian would wonder why on Earth they both kept getting the willies whenever Darth Maul showed his face onscreen.


End file.
